


Prominence

by mirrored_sage



Series: Prominence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrored_sage/pseuds/mirrored_sage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a long running case of a slippery serial extortionist/killer things get heated. Both in casework and home life. Buried and hidden feelings are eventually discovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prominence

“Lestrade, do you have the file on Richard Prompton?” Sherlock asked as he dug through Prompton’s kitchen cabinets. “An ironic name for an serial extortionist, ‘Richard’.”

The front door to the flat slammed shut; Lestrade made his way to the kitchen. “Yea, I do. With such a lengthy criminal record I’m surprised they haven’t locked him up for good yet.” He called in.

“Ah, Richard is a smart man, well, most of the time; he’s often forgetful. He has got connections with the court; knows their secrets, petty ones, but it’s good blackmail. The only problem he falls into is forgetting his murder weapons, and in one case, as we know, his left eye and ‘profits’, at the scene.” The crouched consulting detective said, words muffled by the cabinets he had himself halfway contorted into. Sherlock threw a can of beans over his shoulder.

The now dented can of beans rolled along the floor and bumped into the toe of John’s shoe. John blinked down at the can then started to roll it to and fro beneath his foot as he watched Sherlock decorate the flat with miscellaneous foods from the cupboard.

After clearing all the pesky food from the cupboard, Sherlock shoved himself almost completely into the small space he’d stripped bare. He looked around the space and spotted a small square latched panel.

John glanced down to his can of beans then looked up when he heard scratching and clattering from Sherlock’s cabinet. John snorted amusedly at the lanky detective’s folded position, his eyes unintentionally wandering down the man’s body. Noticing his own gaze, John quickly snapped his eyes back down to the can beneath his foot. 

“Aahhaa.” The detective mumbled upon the discovery of the tiny door. He opened it, reached in and pulled out a pair of semi-bloody gloves, a bottle of chloroform, a large stack of money, and a case of shotgun shells. “I think I’ve found what we’re looking for, Lestrade.” Sherlock said, pleased with the discovery.

Sherlock’s sudden break in tossing foods digging about stirred the detective inspector from his entertained thoughts. “Huh? Oh, good. Now I can get back to the station if we’re done here.” He said still distracted by thoughts. Lestrade had seen John’s accidental gazing and blush of realization. The detective inspector, like most others at the station, felt there was a tension between the two flat mates. It was getting even more humoring now that John was unknowingly playing along to every ones’ thesis of the crush.

Lestrade walked over to his bag, which was sitting on the kitchen island table, and took out a plastic bag to put the evidence into. He pulled on a pair of gloves then moved to picked up Sherlock’s findings. As Lestrade passed John, who was staring out the flat’s living room window at the setting sun, he chuckled to himself. His and the others’ thoughts of what might go on at 221B could possibly be, or soon be true and Lestrade couldn’t pass up a deserved chuckle in appreciation of this prediction. 

John turned his vision from the window and the setting sun to give Lestrade a quizzical look. What could he have found amusing enough to laugh; was there anything John had possibly missed? Had Lestrade seen him looking over Sherlock so incriminatingly? John tried not to worry himself about the latter. People already constantly accused Sherlock and himself to be a pair—John decided it was just all getting into his head then promptly shook off the thought.

Lestrade returned John’s critical look with a smile and a nod as he picked up his work, strode out of the kitchen and out of the flat to hail a taxi, evidence bag in hand.  
With the slam of the door, John turned away from the corner of the island table looking to the window and faced Sherlock. He kicked the dented can of beans over to the consulting detective, who was now standing tall instead of self-stuffed into a cupboard. “Welp, looks like you’ve almost got another tedious case all wrapped up.” John said buoyantly to the now standing man.

Sherlock glanced down at the can as it lazily rolled across the floor, making a “dink-dunk, dink-dunk” noise because of the dent, and hit the toe of his left shoe then he smiled up at John. “Yes, nearly. But we’ve only just begun the fun part: catching our friend, Mr. Prompton. So what do you say? Ready to grab a cab back to Baker Street?”

John smiled leisurely as his friend replied. His smile did fall a bit as Sherlock mentioned all the running, chasing, and danger that was ahead. Although the “fun” part always made him slightly stressed for Sherlock’s and who ever go in the way’s safety, he agreed apprehending the criminal was the best part of a sprawling case. The smile regained its happiness as John looked around the open flat at the absolute mess Sherlock had made while searching for evidence and making deductions. Luckily, none of the foods that had been chucked out of the cupboards during the contortion act had exploded on impact or broken any of the countless expensive vases dotted in precarious places about the flat. “The police are not going to be excited about you tampering with evidence and wreaking havoc like this. There’re noodles in the living room and a muffin tin down the hall.”

The younger man grinned lopsidedly at the foods spewed about, possibly proud of the chaos. “The police can think and feel what they want. Prompton won’t be living here for much longer if I have any hand in it, and I do.” Sherlock glided over to the chair where his coat lay, forcefully kicking a can of peas into the bathroom as he walked. He shrugged into his coat, grabbed Prompton’s file, then swiftly headed for the door, the entirety of his black coat swirling in the wake. “Come along, John.” was thrown over a shoulder as the detective reached the exiting hall. 

John gave an incredulous stare to his friend as the peas were kicked into the bathroom. The can of peas ruptured on impact with the sink, causing John to sigh and grumble something about being careless. With another sigh, he adjusted his coat and followed the heedless man out the flat. 

As John exited the flat complex he saw Sherlock and his long legs were already halfway down the block. Sherlock stopped and turned on his heal, coat swishing lively around its owner, as he heard the complex door close. “If only you could keep up, John.” He rumbled pushing his voice loudly over the muffled busy noises of the next block. 

“Yes, and if only you didn’t have motorized stilts for legs and the attention span of a curious toddler.” John half shouted back down the long block as he hurried towards his companion. John’s mind was elsewhere (specifically where a man would admire the chiseled curves created by lively black trench coats on lanky, but strong consulting detectives without consciously realizing the possible oddness of the admiration) while his legs shuffled at a high speed for such a short man. His jacket got caught on the black steel point of a fence along the side walk, halting the rush of momentum and nearly throwing it backwards. John let out a strangled noise as he was strangled by his coat grabbing onto the metal rod. The mossy green jacket had entangled itself curiously enough. John struggled to untangle himself and inspect the damage but the catch wouldn’t allow his arms to reach the snag, so ultimately he was left tied to the slender black rod.

Sherlock saw John veering towards the fence seemingly in a daze. He watched as the jacket entangled itself with the black point and nearly threw John backwards. A smile broke his face as he started to walk towards his mussed friend, who struggled and held the most baffled look. “John—“ 

“Damn! What the hell?”

“John—“

“Urhg, Damn it!”

“John—“

“Bloody hell!!”

“John!!” Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder and yanked his friend to face him. The moss green jacket tore quietly.

John paused his struggle to look up at an impatient but amused Sherlock. 

“Take your arms out the sleeves.” Sherlock said bluntly.

The entangled man blinked and stared back, daft at the moment and unable to understand the words spoken to him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John’s incompetence then rolled his eyes, snorted frustrated laughter, and started to pry John’s arms out of their ensnared cases.

“Wait, wait! Sher— Hey! Sherlock, stop! Sherlock, stop it!” John struggled against his friend’s help. “Sherlock, stop! There are people on the other side of the street!” A blush started to appear onto his face and tops of his ears and his eyes darted about.

“Yes, and you’re stuck to a fence, too incompetent to figure out this jacket has /sleeves/.” Sherlock mocked. John struggled again and Sherlock gave up then wrenched him off the fence, creating a gaping tattered mess both hanging by the one of John’s sleeves that Sherlock hadn’t gotten removed, and the fence.

Throughout the whole ordeal, John felt the blush rise stronger and stronger from his heart to his stomach, his face, and behind his eyes and ears. /“God, I hope Sherlock will attribute my reaction to possible head trauma from backlash and not deduce what might be happening. This could be the death of me. Right here.”/ was all John could think about as Sherlock had started to try and untangle him. Now, John realigned himself and tried, unsuccessfully, to dust what just happened off his front of his jumper. The shredded jacket was shed and decidedly carried the rest of the way. 

“Right. Now, stop being daft and keep up.” Sherlock spit. He was still quite amused at what John had gotten himself into and how overly flustered his friend had gotten as Sherlock tried to untangle him. A smile still played at the corners of the taller man’s mouth as the pair walked onto the busier street to catch a cab back to 221B. Deductive wit was never something that left Sherlock’s thought patterns, just like the stubborn smile that didn’t want to leave the curve of his lips right now. . .


End file.
